He Sleeps Unaware of the Clarion Call
by TheObsidianQuill
Summary: Post-Nogitsune. Stiles is on bad terms with the pack, in his time of need he's all alone and ends up with his soul separated from his body. Time is running out for him to get his body back before it's too late. Will the pack be able to solve his 'disappearance' in time? Or will he be stuck like that, unseen, unheard, completely alone. (Sterek, cross posted on Ao3)
1. Alone

Author's note:/ This fic is going to be Sterek eventually. A few points of plot are loosely inspired by the movie The Invisible (2007), though it isn't a crossover and won't have any of the characters or anything. You definitely don't have to see the movie to understand it, though the movie is pretty good. In this fic, Erica and Boyd are alive, but Malia and Kira aren't in it. Now, I hope you enjoy the first chapter!

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"Come on, come on . . ." Stiles muttered under his breath as he restlessly paced the length of his room while the ominous trill of the empty dial tone rang in his ear from his phone. The moment he heard the monotonous disembodied voice of his best friend's voicemail, his ever-building frustration burst out of him in a filthy curse and the very _un-smart_ decision to throw his phone in whichever direction, followed by the tell-tail _crunch_ of a shattered screen.

Stiles covered his face with his hands and let his head tilt back to look heavenward, letting a lengthy sigh blow out between his fingers. After a silent moment to ensure that he didn't just _combust,_ he sought out his cell phone again. But it was all in vain, since when he _did_ find it, it was completely done for. Stiles swore again and resumed his pacing.

You see, that was exactly why Stiles always tried his best to keep the peace in the pack! Because having fights with your friends, and subsequently being ignored by said friends, was really _not_ a good idea when living in a town that was monster-prone and when there was a _freaking_ _ **human**_ in the pack!

Well, perhaps just calling it 'fighting' was oversimplifying it far too much. Realistically? It was more accurate to say that his friendship with his long-time best friend had slowly been circling the drain for months—maybe even ever since that night in the woods when Scott had been bitten—and the recent brutal verbal showdowns and resulting avoidance was only a byproduct of all of that.

But, usually they were able to ignore and look past their problems in the face of so many life or death situations.

Stiles and Scott hadn't been on 'good terms' since the Nogitsune, but with everything that followed that, it had only gotten worse. Canceled plans, avoiding Stiles during school, leaving Stiles out of absolutely everything right up until the moment that Scott had no one else to rely on and _had_ to call him. . . And when they actually worked together, Scott would inevitably be set off by something Stiles said or did and it would turn into an all-out war between them. At first, Stiles was unused to such hostility from his friend and would match Scott tit for tat on each harsh insult he threw.

But eventually, as Stiles settled into the reality of what had happened to him during his possession from the Nogitsune, as Stiles truly began to break down and take a look at all of the damage that had been dealt him from that monster, he slowly started to lose his will to defend himself against Scott. He was a mess that night—a few weeks after he'd defeated the Nogitsune—as it was right about then that he stopped dissociating from the trauma and it felt like the paper ribbons holding him together had finally torn. He felt broken, used, violated—like someone had broken into his house that only _he_ should be allowed to enter and it would never be his own again.

Then, like a rolling storm from overhead, came the fear. Stiles didn't sleep for days on end, too terrified he'd never wake up and be imprisoned inside his own mind once more. His panic attacks were a regular occurrence, he barely left his house—the summer vacation meant no obligation to school—he often forgot to keep up with regular meals and hygiene, and most of his time was spent either counting his fingers/reading to make sure he was actually _awake_ or staring at the walls of his bedroom.

In short, Stiles became a complete _wreck!_ And while he was trying his damnedest to mold himself back into a functioning human being, Scott had taken his frustration out on Stiles. Not that Stiles really blamed Scott—and perhaps that was why Stiles eventually stopped fighting back—he knew that he'd done some horrible things while the Nogitsune possessed him— _god, Allison, for one thing_ —and though he knew he had no way of controlling them in the moment, the fact that it had been a monster wearing his face, and that even looking at Stiles probably reminded Scott of the loss of his first and arguably greatest loves. . . it wasn't really helping Stiles to not blame himself and he knew he was allowing himself to bare some of Scott's hatred.

The constant fighting was hard, but it wasn't just the fighting and butting heads that carved deeper valleys between them—it was the loss of _trust._ Plain and simple, Scott didn't trust Stiles, and when it came to Scott, there was also the hidden parenthesized _(etc.)_ that meant the pack wouldn't trust him as well. Scott wasn't the Alpha, Derek was, but Scott was a leader in his own right and an actual werewolf. By all definitions Scott outranked Stiles by a mile.

And, honestly, with all of that resentment directed at him recently and no one to support _Stiles,_ his resilience was beginning to fade and it was becoming harder and harder to trust that someday his friend would return to him, _forgive him_. He knew that Scott was always a bit short-sighted and didn't always consider the people around him, but lately, it was becoming harder to count that as a natural character flaw or the need to relieve pressure as he grieved instead of it being completely intentional and downright cruel.

Stiles would _always_ stand by his brother, but he had lost his faith in that being mutual when it came to Scott.

But what lead up to the present wasn't really important. All that mattered was what was the _current_ situation, which was this: Stiles hadn't seen or heard from any of the pack all weekend (no surprise there, probably off saving the town or generally avoiding the new pariah), his dad was currently on a big case and had barely been home all week and probably wouldn't even sleep in his own bed until it was finished, nobody was picking up their _fucking_ phones, and Stiles had come home from grocery shopping that evening to find one hell of a 'gift' on his bed.

Positioned perfectly on his pillow were two polaroid pictures that made his blood run cold. The first was of his dad and the second of himself, but not just any old pictures of them out and about, taken from afar. The pictures were of them asleep—Stiles in his bed and the sheriff slumped over his desk on some case files—and if what he saw in the light of the harsh flash of his own picture, they were taken just last night. Stiles felt ready to shudder right out of his own skin at the thought of someone standing over him as he slept and being able to take a picture—with flash—without him knowing.

However, the disgust he felt for his own picture couldn't hold a candle to the utter dread he felt at the thought of someone getting so close to his dad while he was unaware. Not only that, but his dad's phone had something his didn't—a rusted brown smudge over the sheriffs sleeping face, it was cracked and flaking and if his experience with it over the past few years was anything to go by, he'd say it was definitely blood. It was clear as day what that was intended as. A threat.

On the white back of his photo was the messy scrawl of an address and the short message to _'come alone, at midnight.'_ If it weren't for the sheer insanity that was Stiles' life, he _might_ have believed that this was just your run-of-the-mill psycho with a grudge against the sheriff. However, in Beacon Hills, there was no hope of that being the case.

His first instinct had been to call the pack, of course, but after calling everyone who even remotely _knew_ about the supernatural world, getting no answer, and leaving an unholy amount of voice messages on Scott's phone to call him back asap, he knew he was thoroughly screwed. Stiles tried to ignore the growing ache in his chest at the thought of being ignored in a time of need. Because that's the thing, isn't it? It can't be that they're all too busy at that exact moment to answer his call, even _if_ something crazy was going on. So, at least some of them just couldn't be bothered to pick up the phone when he was on the other end.

Stiles shook his head to try to drain away some of the rapidly flooding thoughts of absent panic filling his head and took one last regretful look at where his phone had impacted the wall before turning back to the digital clock on his bedside. It was far too close to midnight to try to physically track down any of his 'conditional friends' in the hopes that they might be willing to protect his dad while he sorted things out.

And if Stiles looked back on that very moment later on, he would admit to not being in his right mind when making the decision to fly solo. Months of painful fighting and isolation had devastated his support system and left him constantly feeling uprooted and unbalanced. On top of that, the tell tail ache in his stomach and behind his eyes from constant sleep deprivation did not leave him in the most rational state to begin with.

Stiles ran down to his jeep, photos still clutched in his hand. Jumping in, he peeled out of there, not wanting to risk being a moment too late.

After almost getting lost, _twice_ , Stiles arrived in a neighborhood of Beacon Hills that he wasn't even sure was _a part_ of the town and a place he was least familiar with. The neighborhood was so immaculate and luxurious, Stiles half expected at any time to be greeted by a fleet of Stepford Wives. Driving past the looming, wealthy suburban homes in the middle of the night, he was suddenly reminded of his old bully-turned kanima-turned werewolf that had bowed out of this madness a while back and moved to London—not a bad thought from where Stiles was sitting at the moment—as he was sure Jackson had probably lived in that neighborhood, or one just like it.

Stiles finally came to a stop before a house just as unnecessarily big and ostentatious as all the others in the neighborhood and had to check the address with the one on the back of the photo several times before actually stepping out of his jeep. He eyed the normal-looking house skeptically. Either the monster had broken into someone's house just for the occasion, or his mental image of a nasty and shadow-beast out of his blood was all wrong. Then again, how many barbaric creatures knew how to take polaroid's?

Stiles turned his head to take a sweeping glance of the surrounding houses and, thankfully, most were dark or had their curtains drawn. Feeling a bit more confident, Stiles opened the jeep door again and pulled a dented and scratched—but still reliable—wooden bat from his back seat. Not wasting any more time, he walked over the manicured lawn with vengefully heavy footsteps to crumple the grass and was about to pound his fist on the dark wooden door when it was suddenly gliding open and Stiles ground to a halt at the 'beast' before him. Because it wasn't a beast at all.

At least, she didn't appear to be.

He blinked several times, with no change to his eyesight that _must_ be playing tricks on him. Standing in the doorway, only two feet from him, was a woman— _a very human-looking woman at that._ With perfect voluminous auburn hair curled and cut to her shoulders, smooth and almost ageless skin that was only _barely_ telling of a woman in her early forties, warm but piercing dark blue eyes, and a blinding smile. Her clothes looked high-end, a flattering yet appropriate mix of silks and clean-cut linens. Her entire demeanor spoke of life-long confidence and control. From a single glance, one could tell she was the type of woman to wear designer heels wherever she went and not let them slow her down for a second.

All of that information came to Stiles at once and over stimulated his brain into a state of barely functioning. Stiles was ready to start apologizing profusely and beg for this woman to please _not_ call the cops on him for showing up on her doorstep in the middle of the night with a bat in his hands, when he was stopped by said woman speaking up first.

"Stiles, please, come in and have a seat." Stiles could feel the confusion and embarrassment in his expression melt and solidify into a blank and tense mask once more. He wasn't mistaken, he had a pretty damn good memory and he _knew_ he'd never met or seen that woman before in his life. So, the fact that she not only knew his name, but spoke so comfortably with him and was clearly expecting him caused all of his shields to slam back up into place.

She stepped back and pulled the door open wider as she looked down at the delicate gold watch on her thin wrist, though he made no move to step into the house, wanting just one more clue that he was indeed exactly where he was supposed to be.

"Just on time." The woman said with a beaming smile that sent uneasy chills down Stiles' spine. Well, that was as good as it was going to get in terms of confirmation.

Careful not to touch her in any way, he slipped through the gap in the doorway and quickly put enough distance between him and her until he knew what exactly was going on. He gripped the bat a little bit tighter. If she noticed his cautious actions, it didn't show through her beaming smile. She quietly led him to a large living room of modern design and pristinely clean . . . well, _everything._ Everything seemed to be stark white without the slightest sign of ever actually being touched or used by someone.

With every passing second, the sensation of insects crawling under his skin grew and his unease was turning the serene and confusing situation into something more ominous. Everything felt _too_ clean, her smile _too_ wide, her gaze _too_ seeing. It felt like at any moment the reality he saw around him would melt into some hellish nightmare.

She offered him a seat on the untouched couch, but he was there for a reason, and he wanted it sorted out as soon as possible. Stiles remained standing even as she sank elegantly onto a white chair and carefully picked up a thin white porcelain cup of tea, it's accompanying saucer not making a single _clink_. Before her deep cherry red lips could meet the rim of the cup, Stiles gritted his teeth and threw down the polaroid pictures he'd hardly let go of since finding them. They made a loud slapping noise on the glass surface of the coffee table, the harsh noise piercing through the false calm being pumped into the air like a fragrance.

Dark blue eyes remained trained on the glossy photos as the cup found its way once again to the tabletop, and still, her composure remained. Stiles waited, tense, for the fight for survival to begin, as it always did. But it never came. Crimson lips once again stretched into a smile and Stiles was frozen in her paralyzing gaze.

"How rude of me, I never properly introduced myself, did I? My name is Meredith, and it is my absolute pleasure to meet you, Stiles." There it was again, his name. Said with such ease, but to Stiles, it felt like a cold hand gripping the back of his neck. It felt _wrong._ All of it felt _wrong._

Ice dripped down his spine and he broke out into a cold sweat as his body seemed to catch up with the situation. He knew he was balancing precariously over the waiting maw of a beast. It was only a matter of time.

"Look, I don't know what your problem is, but I only came here to warn you to back off. Come near me or my father again and we're going to have a serious problem." Stiles wanted out of there as soon as he made his point clear. The old Stiles would have probably never shown up at a stranger's house wielding his old bat and an arsenal of threats in the first place. But then again, one didn't go through the type of crap he had without becoming a bit jaded.

The saccharine grin morphed into sickeningly genuine concern and Stiles nearly stumbled back when Meredith stood so suddenly and took a step towards him.

"Oh no, Stiles . . . you have to understand, I have absolutely no intention of hurting you or your father. I'll admit that my methods were a little . . . _extreme,_ but I only did this because I needed you to come on your own as soon as possible. I am worried about the state you're in and thought that such measures were necessary to get you here unharmed." Each honey soaked word that fell from her mouth only managed to scramble his thoughts further. Stiles blinked as his skull seemed to expand and contract simultaneously, the floor beneath him felt like it was rocking as if he were in a boat.

Stiles gripped his head and tried to steady himself, but nothing was working. He knew everything was about to get a whole lot worse and he had no one to come save his human ass. He shouldn't have gone there, he should have waited. He fucked up.

His eyes kept slipping closed without his consent so he forced all of his energy into catching that dark gaze once more.

"Wha— _what did you do?"_ His words were wrapping around his teeth and tugging to close his jaw completely.

In the raging sea of sensations and cloudy hazy, Stiles barely noticed when his space was invaded by the cause of his current distress. His ears filled with the soft shushing and his was led over to the couch by firm and surprisingly strong hands. When he was finally seated, the chaos had mellowed enough for him to gain _some_ cognition, but he was still unable to move without the world turning up end on him once more.

Meredith sat next to him and although he wanted nothing more than to run as far away from the nut-job, he couldn't physically stop her when she pulled him down to rest his head on her lap like a child. Her deceptively soothing voice curling in his ear.

"It's alright now, Stiles, I've got you." Gentle fingers carded through his growing hair. Each touch sent flares of pain and nausea through his system and it was all he could do to not throw up. "To be honest, I only meant to pass through. I was only supposed to be here for a few days on business, but . . . when I saw you, it was like looking at the sun—like looking at my David all over again. He would have been right about your age by now if he hadn't— _if he hadn't been taken from me so young._ " The hand in his hair paused before the moment seemed to slip away just as quickly as it came and her hand resumed its ministrations.

"I could see it in your eyes, the first time I saw you. I've seen it in my own reflection for the past decade. Loss. One that's never really healed, has it? So, I stayed, and I watched. I did my research. You were ten when she passed. Such a horrible thing, to see your mother slowly dying. Even worse, to have your child watch as you slowly break down and fade away. As a mother myself, I couldn't imagine." Stiles felt sick to his stomach. If he weren't nearly paralyzed, he wasn't quite sure _what_ he would have done to her for talking about his mom. And despite his silent begging for it to be over, she kept on talking.

"But if that wasn't bad enough, it wasn't just her, was it? After that, you found a friend who was more of a _brother_ , and then came the formation of that little dysfunctional pack. You see, what your werewolf packmates don't seem to realize is that pack is pack, and in all of the ways that matter, it will affect you no matter what your species is. So, to _lose_ your pack and have it thrown in your face again, and again, and _again . . ._ well, that is a torture I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy!" Stiles had begun to tremble under the weight of her words and it was only made worse when she softly wiped the treacherous tears from his cheeks and tried to sooth him.

"I know, I know, Stiles. It hurts, doesn't it? It's hard to even _breathe_ when they're around. You were always there for them when they needed you—and even when they didn't—but now they won't even give you the time of day. Your father? Well, he hasn't really been the same since your mother died. The nights at the station, the constant excuses of overtime, the distrust, the distance, the _drinking._ How many times did you spend your nights picking up broken glass off the kitchen floor? Or nearly dragging him up to bed because he was too drunk to make it past the couch? How many concerned looks did his coworkers shoot you after smelling it on his breath?" Meredith just went on.

He wanted to plug his ears, to curl up and shut the world out like he used to after his mom. . . Or he wanted to be able to scream at her that it was all lies, that it wasn't true and his dad wasn't like that anymore. But how much of it was actually a lie? Sure, Stiles knew that his dad's old drinking habits hadn't returned, but the absences, the avoidance, the mistrust, _that_ was all true.

The hand in his hair suddenly stopped and Meredith turned Stiles' head so that he was forced to look at her.

"You don't have to worry anymore, Stiles. I'm here to help you, and you're going to help me. I lost a child, and you are in need of a parent." Her face stretched into a smile that was too wide to be comforting, the gleam in her eyes bright and equally unsettling. "I can give you everything you've ever wanted. I can give you the love of a mother that you need right now. We can live long, happy lives together and leave behind all of this pain. There's nothing holding you back, you know this. So, please Stiles, say you'll stay." Her fingers caressed his cheek and she looked at him with such hope.

For one, _insane_ , moment, he was tempted. The thought of never again having to see Scott's glares directed at him, or catch the pack around town—together—without him, and to never have to come home to an empty house where silence and discomfort seemed to have seeped into the very walls and stained the fibers of the carpet. For one, utterly hopeless moment, Stiles considered believing the promises laid before him to escape the toxic emotions that had been slowly corroding his insides over the past few months.

He was so close to admitting she was right, that he didn't have any more ties to that place that had been infected and worn down over time. But then he realized she was wrong. Even if he was clutching at a frayed little thread, there was still _one_ thing he couldn't ignore, one person that he didn't have bad blood with just yet. _Derek._ It was weak, as they hadn't actually spoken to each other in quite a while since things had calmed down a little and the Hale pack was able to regroup and rebuild on their own. He doubted the Alpha was even aware of things breaking down between Stiles and Scott— _why would he_? So, technically, they didn't have bad blood _yet_. And perhaps there was a little bit more there for Stiles than just the lack of outright animosity, but while lying paralyzed in the lap of some _thing_ was _not_ the time to be contemplating what new unobtainable person had the misfortune of gaining his interest.

Honey brown met dark sea blue and Stiles used every bit of strength he had to lift his head off her lap to get right up into her face and growl out.

 _"_ _Fuck. Off."_ Every bit of rage and hell-forged stubbornness went into his words and he felt thoroughly satisfied when that sickening expression on her face slipped away into a cold glare, turning her into something more frightening and definitely more manageable in his opinion. Fearsome? He knew well, and could handle. Kind and gentle? Now that was completely out of his depth.

He knew he wouldn't be getting out of that situation anytime soon, so he wasn't really surprised when all that happened was a slightly disappointed sigh from Meredith before a dangerous smirk tugged at her blood-red lips.

"Then you give me no choice, Stiles. I'll just have to keep you by my side until you come to your senses."

Stiles barely had a moment to try to prepare himself for something horrible before Meredith was leaning down pressing an unexpected kiss to his forehead. In a sudden explosion of color and sound, Stiles was plunged deep into unconsciousness and he could only hope that he'd find a way out when he woke up.


	2. Dead(?)

Waking up wasn't slow or reluctant as it usually was for Stiles. It was so sudden, in fact, that for a moment Stiles sat and wondered if he'd been slapped or someone had clapped next to his ear or something. Why else would he have awoken with his heart pounding and body tense—ready for either fight or flight. Then he realized that the bazar events from the night before had, in fact, _not_ been a horrid dream at all.

Sitting up, Stiles held his breath and listened to the slightest sounds around him. When he heard absolutely nothing moving around within the house, he quickly started absorbing his surroundings. He was still on the couch in Meredith's living room, but all of the light coming in through the large bay windows meant that morning had finally come and he had to get out, _asap!_

Stiles vaguely remembered what that crazy bitch had said the night before about keeping him there or something until he changed his mind. He'd thought that meant he'd wake up chained to the wall in her creepy basement or something—as it usually went with supernatural psychos—but she'd just left him on her couch all night and it didn't sound like she was even in the house anymore.

However, instead of waiting around to ask her, Stiles sprang off the couch to start searching for a way out. Going back the way he came, Stiles moved so fast he nearly slammed into the front door. He was already thinking about what he'd seen in the living room that he could use to smash one of the windows when the front door didn't pan out, but those thoughts were cut short when the gleaming silver handle in his hand turned without resistance and the dark stained wood door swung open before him like the most confusing miracle he'd ever witnessed in his life.

He wanted to stop and think about everything that was happening in detail, but with the constant itch in his gut that felt like Meredith was looming just over his shoulder and waiting to rip his chance at freedom away, he didn't dare hesitate a moment longer and fled that cursed house like a bat out of hell! He almost stopped again when he saw that his trusted blue jeep was missing from the front curb where he'd left it the night before, but he knew there were more important things to worry about.

Like finding Scott, thoroughly chewing him out for not answering any of his damn calls, and then ashamedly asking for his protection, along with his dad's until they got rid of _'mommy dearest'_ back there before he really did find himself locked up in her basement. Meredith may not have had claws and fangs like all of the other baddies that he'd faced recently, but he knew a monster when he saw one. It might have something to do with the 'spark' Deaton had claimed he possessed a while back, or maybe it was just all of his time around the supernatural, but Stiles was starting to become quite good at sensing those types of things and he knew without a doubt that Meredith was not an enemy to underestimate.

Stiles was running down the road at full speed, and could see the grownups making their way out to their cars or to fetch the mail, but he couldn't care less about how crazy he looked in that moment. He just needed to get to the school and get his hands on the pack.

Even though it would probably put his body into shock any other time, Stiles didn't slow down or stop until he made it completely out of that neighborhood and he was more confident in the increasingly populated area protecting him from immediate abduction. However, he did maintain a fast walking pace all the way to Beacon Hills High and made it there probably sometime after first period.

The hallways were just starting to empty once more and Stiles couldn't see Scott at his locker, so he hurried off to his second class—which he shared with him—though his path through the crowds was not aided by the fact that nobody seemed to be in the mood to actually get out of his way and he was constantly running into people who didn't even bother to apologize. By the time he reached his class, Stiles was ready to start pulling out his hair or maybe start stabbing his classmates with a pencil.

The bell rang just as he entered and he muttered a quick apology to his teacher before making a beeline for the empty seat beside Scott, counting his lucky starts that the rest of the class still tended to leave a seat around Scott open out of habit. Though Scott didn't even look up when he sat down, the fact that he didn't immediately receive a glare as he normally would, left Stiles feeling hopeful.

Stiles anxiously gnawed on his bottom lip and bounced on of his legs erratically as he waited for the class to lull into the daily lecture so he could talk to Scott. His chance finally came ten minutes later and he subtly shifted closer to Scott and didn't take his eyes off of the teacher when he whispered.

"Hey man, I know things have been a little messed up lately between us, but I really need your help this time." He hesitated a moment before continuing, the stubborn bastard inside him absolutely hating having to ask Scott for help when there was still so much unresolved anger on both of their ends, but he'd need to swallow his pride in order to get the protection he needed. "Look, we've both said and done things in the past that wouldn't win either of us the 'best friend of the year' award, but I- . . . _I can't do this on my own!_ As soon as it's over you can go right back to hating me." Stiles promised, even if it killed him to think that things might never resolve at that rate.

Stiles glanced at Scott to see how his plea had affected his former-best friend, but Scott's face was completely blank and he looked as though he hadn't even heard Stiles. A surprising amount of rage suddenly bubbled up from within Stiles and without really caring if it earned him a detention, his next words were said in a normal volume for the whole class to hear.

"You know what, Scott? You're an asshole!" Still no response. Stiles waited to be informed of his detention date and time, but nothing came. Anger melting away, Stiles turned to look at the teacher, confused. However, they hadn't missed a single beat in their lecture. Wondering if his slip up had gone unnoticed, Stiles glanced around at his classmates and, yeah, he'd gotten away with cussing out his ex-best friend in the middle of class. _'Hmm,'_ he thought, _'perhaps luck is on my side for once.'_

Refocusing on the lecture, Stiles absently decided that if Scott was going to be a dick and ignore him, then he'd wait until someone else from the pack came along and he could plead his case to them and hopefully get someone else to knock some sense into the bastard.

At least, that _was_ the plan until ten minutes before the bell rang when two girls right beside Stiles decided to start up a conversation that he couldn't help but listen in on.

"Hey, Jessica! It looks like that Stilinski kid is gone again. I swear he's been absent for half of this term! How he's not been kicked out of school is beyond me." Stiles frowned and turned to look directly at the girl who spoke, hoping his glare would shut them up when they realized he was sitting _right there._ The other girl—Jessica—tried to muffle her snort with her hand and grinned as she responded to her friend.

"I guess being the son of the sheriff has some perks after all." That's when Stiles' glare turned outright deadly. Pushing his luck once again, and speaking rather loudly, Stiles spoke up.

"And that sheriff's son is sitting _right_ _here_. So, I'd appreciate it if you'd kindly keep it down while right next to me, thank you." But once again, his words fell on deaf ears. Eyebrows pinching together in confusion, Stiles leaned across the aisle and said, loudly enough to hurt someone's ear at close range, _"Hello?"_ no response. Something uneasy turned over in his gut. Stiles waved a hand in front of both of the girls' faces, yet not so much as a twitch. Swerving back around in his seat, he did the same to Scott. _Nothing._

Feeling like he was just realizing that he was trapped in some kind of nightmare, Stiles began to panic and sprung up from his seat. Only then did he notice that not a single set of eyes tracked his movements or reacted to the ruckus he was making. He stepped into the aisle next to Scott's desk and grabed his friends shoulder and began to roughly shake him—and he wasn't mistaken, he could definitely feel the flesh and bone beneath his hand, was able to move his friend—yet still no reaction.

"Scott. _Scott. SCOTT MCCALL!"_ Stiles yelled into his oh-so-sensitive werewolf ears at the top of his lungs until his vocal cords felt like they would rip apart. His heart was beating too fast. His breath coming in too quickly and he knew he was on the edge of a panic attack. In a fit of desperation and rage at _just needing to be seen_ , Stiles grabbed the thick textbook off Scotts desk and with a vicious growl that was barely human, he threw it as hard as he could at the teacher's desk and felt satisfied when their laptop and stacks upon stacks of paper was thrown off.

 _'_ _There. There's no way they can ignore that!'_

He thought victoriously, except for the cold dread pooling in his stomach when his limp hand by his side brushed something smooth and familiar. Looking down, Stiles just couldn't comprehend what he was looking at. A textbook. But not just any textbook, _Scott's textbook,_ the very same one he'd chucked across the room. When he looked up and saw that the desk was completely untouched and neat once more, he felt like his mind was breaking. Or, you could probably say _he_ was breaking.

Looking down at his hands, that felt so real yet could no longer interact with the world, he knew. He was dead. He was dead, right? This was what happened in the movies, he was a ghost or spirit or whatever. He was dead, and Scott was sitting in second period looking bored out of his mind. He was dead, and his father was probably thanking about sneaking off to his favorite greasy fast food place downtown for lunch. He was dead, and nobody knew. Nobody mourned. Nobody cried. Nobody was looking for him.

 _He was dead. . ._

His life had ended and all he could think, in that moment, was _'how long? . . . How long until they started to wonder? How long until they began to worry? How long until he was found?'_ and lastly, _'Would they ever find out how he died?'_

Stiles looked down at his friend, whose eyes were barely staying open as they watched the clock. He couldn't help but feel foolishly disappointed that Scott didn't feel something. It was ridiculous, but he'd kind of hoped . . . he'd thought that if one of them got seriously hurt or _died_ that the other would . . . _feel_ something! Like, they would just know. Maybe because Stiles still inherently thought of Scott as pack, or maybe it was the near-decade long friendship.

The bell rang and Stiles shook away his thoughts, knowing that getting caught up in his grief over _his own_ death would do him no good. Instead, he turned to something safer, something more familiar— _anger._ He knew—objectively—how he'd died. _Meredith._ She'd done something to him the night before and whether it was intentional or not, she'd killed him. Which was why she hadn't bothered even locking her door that morning. Because, truthfully, there _was_ no way out. If she hadn't- . . . hadn't moved his body yet—that's going to take some getting used to—then he was somewhere in her house still.

He may not be able to kill her in retribution, but he sure as _hell_ was going to haunt her ass!

Making up his mind, Stiles left the emptying classroom—no longer caring who he bumped into since they wouldn't actually feel it—and began the long run back.

That time, Stiles took the short and dangerous way back, since it didn't matter if he ran down the center of the road or through people's lawns anymore. He made it there much faster since it seemed that his earlier exhaustion was more of a result of what his mind _expected_ to feel since he wasn't even in his body anymore. When he arrived at the house, he hadn't even broken a sweat.

The house was empty when he arrived, but he had something else to occupy him while he waited. He began looking for his body. He searched the first and second floors and didn't find it, but was even more creeped out by what he did find—or, more accurately, what he _didn't_ find. Aside from the living room and the kitchen, every single room in the house so far had been completely empty: no beds, no furniture, most rooms didn't even have lightbulbs or carpet.

Reluctantly, Stiles turned to the last place in the house to search, the basement. When Stiles found a nondescript door that opened up to a dark stairway leading down, not for the first time in his messed-up life, he felt like he was in a cliché horror movie and was about to have his first encounter with the axe-murderer. Except it wasn't a movie, he'd already met the killer, and he was already dead. Of course, even his horror-movie situation would be all backwards! And _of course,_ there wouldn't be a light switch.

Stiles might not be able to get hurt in his 'condition' but he wasn't about to fall down some stairs to test that theory, so he made his way down carefully. The first thing that Stiles noticed was the only source of light was a small window on the far wall to his left and had been covered with newspaper so nobody could peer in. The newspaper also made the late morning light dim, but Stiles was able to see once his eyes adjusted.

The room was almost entirely empty, save for one thing. A bed. The basement was dusty and damp and comprised of only grey cement and several support beams. Yet, at the wall opposite the stairs, was a bed. A stark white, plush, expensive looking bed. Stiles approached slowly as he noticed the shape of someone _in_ the bed. He stopped a few feet short and could only stare at his own face. Oh, how much he saw when looking at himself subjectively like that.

He was pale and the dark circles under his eyes that Stiles had been pointedly ignoring for months looked like bruises. His lips were chapped and torn in a few places from nervous biting. His hair was longer than he'd thought and looked oddly dull. And, perhaps the hardest thing to swallow was just how _fucking young_ he looked! He knew his age, a month shy of 18, but after everything he'd been through he didn't think of himself as a kid or even a young adult. He felt _old_. Not in the way young people usually complained about aging once they hit adulthood and had to leave the luxuries of being dependent behind, but like in the way someone looks back on their life and everything they've _done_ and just feels tired, like they're wondering how much further they must go to finally rest.

The body in front of him may look tired and worn out, but he still looked so damn young. If it wasn't him lying there, if it was one of his peers or someone from the pack, Stiles would have thought it was far too soon and their life hadn't even started yet. It's that thought right there, that distancing himself from his own past thoughts of insecurity and maybe even self-hatred, that grounded him in the situation and felt like a punch to the gut. All of a sudden, Stiles wanted so desperately to _hope_ , to look at his life and say _, 'from here on out, things will be different!'_ He wanted the chance to change his life around and be happy without the past tethering itself to him to drag him under.

He might not always feel like he deserved it (a bit of an understatement) but it's not really himself he owes it to. He owed it to an almost-eighteen-year-old who had seen some horrible shit in his life, who lost his mother too young, who coped with horrible and inappropriate humor, who would do absolutely _anything_ for his pack. He owed it to the people surrounding him that were going through tough times of their own and couldn't be strong for him because they were trying to be strong for themselves.

He wanted the chance to whack Scott over the back of his head and tell him to get his head out of his ass or Stiles is done. He wanted to tell his dad that he loved him and that no matter what bullshit Stiles had done and had put them both through, he's still his son and his love will never change. He wanted to tell the betas he _is_ a part of the pack and if they disagree he will list A-Z examples of him saving their asses, comforting them when they needed it, and standing right beside them in every fight, then he would proceed to also smack all of them upside their heads as well. Then . . . Stiles halted a little on the last thought, but he wanted to be completely honest with himself because there was no reason not to anymore. Then, he'd track his favorite angsty werewolf down and kiss him like his life depended on it, because it would.

Stiles sat on the edge of the bed and smiled even though his chest felt like it was collapsing and his eyes were filling with _not-_ tears. _'I always knew procrastinating too much would bite me in the ass one day.'_ He thought and a deprecating laugh bubbled out of his raw throat. It was over, and he wouldn't be able to do any of that.

He cried for a while, unloaded as many regrets and losses and unfulfilled wishes as he could to drain the pressure building up inside of him. When he was done, he felt a bit emptier and could look at his body without wanting to break down again. He had only just started really looking when he noticed something odd. His neck. His pale, supposedly-dead neck had the faintest little twitch about every second.

 _"_ _No way. . ."_ Stiles whispered in disbelief and he reached out his hand to touch two fingers to the pulse point on his neck that _should_ be utterly still. His index and middle finger pressed gently into the— _warm_ —flesh and there it was! A steady rhythm of rushing blood just below the surface.

"You're not dead." Stiles jumped off the bed and turned to face murderer(?) and glared as though he could cut through her skin and bone with his very eyes. For the first time since yesterday, someone was returning his gaze. _'She can definitely see me then.'_ She continued to speak as she walked over to Stiles' body and Stiles backed away so that he wouldn't be close to her.

"It's more like a coma. You're physically alive, but your soul isn't in your body anymore and you won't wake up until their rejoined." Stiles' glare became even more deadly.

"You did this." It wasn't a question, it was a fact.

Meredith smiled and Stiles felt like tearing her limb from limb.

"I did. You weren't ready to accept me, but I couldn't just let you go either. This way you have your freedom, but you won't be able to leave me, not truly. Besides, normal coma patients can last years in that state, but since this is a magically-induced coma and you're not just unconscious but your soul has left the body, your body will only be able to survive a month. Once your body dies, you will remain like this, a soul without a body, unable to move on and connected to me for as long as I shall live. _Or_ , you can accept my help, I can return you to your body before the time is up, and we can leave Beacon Hills together. It doesn't matter to me either way, since I can still see you like this." She shrugged her thin shoulders and Stiles could believe that she would have him either way, didn't care about his lack of a physical body since he was just a replacement for—what did she say his name was? David?

Stiles barely had to think about it.

"Yeah, alright. Let's go. I was thinking about getting out of this place anyways, this place is toxic and I'm still trying to heal." He put his honest feelings into it, but he had also had a bit of a breakthrough less than an hour ago about wanting to _fight_ for his life there. So, he'd play it safe, get back into his body, and fight like hell to get away.

She didn't seem convinced, however.

"I'm not daft, Stiles. I know when you're lying to me. A mother always knows. . . You can take this time to reflect and decide if you _really_ want my help, but until then," She gestured to the stairs with a smirk, "You're free to leave."

Stiles couldn't help but glare again.

"What even _are_ you?" He hissed with such hatred in his voice. He wasn't really sure if he was asking in the literal sense, or the figurative.

"I'm just a witch, Stiles. There's something I want, and nothing will stop me from getting it." She said plainly. She turned around to look over his soulless body. She adjusted the comforter a little higher, soothed back his hair, and smiled like she actually cared. The worst thing about it was that Stiles knew he couldn't stop her, she could do whatever she wanted and he couldn't even touch her, not really at least.

He couldn't just stand there and watch that, so he took her advice and left.

So, he _wasn't_ dead, not yet. However, Stiles found almost no comfort in that. How could he? Yes, he was technically still alive, but the only way to remain that way would be to convince Meredith he wanted her to be his . . . _'surrogate mother'_ the very thought was revolting. She was delusional, and unfortunately her delusions didn't mean she'd believe whatever he told her. Which meant she had high expectations for faux-David and even if Stiles was the best actor in the world, he would never be quite right, never be enough. So yeah, he didn't really hold out hope that he'd get out of his situation any time soon.

Stiles was so caught up in his own thoughts that he didn't realize where his legs were taking him until he saw a familiar police cruiser drive past and pull into his driveway a few houses down. In that moment, Stiles wanted nothing more than to be with his dad, to hug him and steal his jacket like he used to when he was younger so he could feel its warmth and be surrounded by the scent of his father—a blend of eucalyptus and something spicy, from the same aftershave and soap his dad had used for as long as Stiles could remember.

Picking up his pace, Stiles made it just as his dad walked through the front door.

"Dad." Stiles put all of his will into his voice, wanting so desperately to be heard. Of course, he wasn't. Stiles followed him closely around the house as he tiredly settled in, and he drank in all of the details of his dad's face as he knew he wouldn't be receiving any cold or judgmental looks in return. It was the first time his dad had been home in days and Stiles was silently pleading for the sheriff to seek him out and notice his absence, to notice something was wrong.

After what felt like forever, his dad grabbed a bottle of water and made his way up the stairs and stopped at Stiles' door. Stiles cheered and didn't think about how his pleas fell on deaf ears. A solid thirty seconds ticked on by of the sheriff just staring at the door and Stiles tried to not let it affect him too much. Finally, a short knock on his door and then his dad spoke _at_ the white surface.

"I got a call from the school, Stiles. Just . . . just warn me next time you plan on skipping, okay? You may be turning eighteen in a month, but I'm still your father and I say school is still important. Throw your life away when you're not under my roof, but while you're here you should at least _try._ " His dad lingered for a moment, as if waiting for a response, then sighed and continued to his own room.

It was gruff, insensitive in spots, and more than just toeing the line of judgment, but Stiles knew his father enough to see the olive branch for what it was. His dad was _trying,_ and it broke Stiles' heart that he couldn't really be there behind that door, that he couldn't rip it open and hug his dad as hard and possible. His dad would think he wasn't accepting it—at least for now—and that was gut-wrenching.

Instead of following his dad, Stiles entered his room, climbed in bed, and hid under the covers. He wanted to sleep away the rest of his non-life, but no matter how long he laid there, sleep would not come. Apparently, it was a privilege only for the fully-living.

He watched the sun light slowly wither, tracked the lazy path of the shadows as they began to populate the room, listened to the ebb and flow of the wind outside as a storm edged around Beacon Hills and night fell. The night was perhaps one of the longest in his life and when his room finally began to be illuminated by the coming dawn, Stiles was already leaving it behind in favor of seeking out the pack and haunting their asses instead—it was no fun haunting Meredith when she could haunt him right back.


	3. Unwanted Truth

The moment Scott pulled up to the school, Stiles was ready to shadow him and hear all of his dirty little secrets. He might never come back, but if by some miracle he ever did, he would blackmail him for the rest of his life for allowing his friend of over ten years to die—whether he came back or not was unimportant.

He and Scott hadn't even made it into the school before half of the pack had found him and launched into discussing the movie they'd seen together last night. Despite the initial feelings of loathing that arose when finding out that while he'd been— _essentially_ —dying, Scott and the gang had been splitting stitches over some new comedy that had just come out . . . he was begrudgingly glad to see them all getting along so well. There was still a slight strain between them all and one too many awkward silences to be completely normal, but they were obviously getting better and putting in an effort.

They were standing at Scott's locker—at that point it was Scott, Isaac, Erica, and Boyd—and had fallen into another tense silence when Erica took a deep breath and spoke in a more apprehensive tone than before.

"Sooo . . . are we not going to talk about it?" The air grew even heavier and they all seemed to know exactly what she was talking about. Erica sighed in frustration. "Scott, he called nearly every single one of us. I know you guys aren't doing so hot and you don't want him to get involved anymore, but I mean, _ten missed calls?_ On _my_ phone, much less. That seems a little excessive, even for Stiles. What if something—"

"Enough, Erica!" Scott's whole body was taut with tension. After a few deliberate breaths, he relaxed and turned to face her, but he no longer looked easy going. "If there was something wrong, he'd come find us, you know that. He probably wants to talk to me, but I- . . . _I just can't,_ not yet." And that was it. Discussion over.

Stiles rolled his eyes. It was a touch hurtful, knowing what the result of their fighting had ultimately been, but Stiles also knew enough about what was going on to know that Scott still cared about him—on some level, even if Stiles wasn't currently his favorite person—and he didn't envy Scott in that moment because _eventually_ his death would be discovered (or at least inferred when he'd been missing for long enough) and despite all of their differences, when Scott found out something had happened to his former best friend, it wouldn't be easy. If Stiles ever lost Scott that way, he'd be devastated! Like losing a part of himself.

So even though every second that his absence went unnoticed was punch in the gut, he half hoped it went on for as long as possible to delay Scott or his dad from finding out.

Stiles continued to follow Scott to his first period, which they shared together, but not with any of the rest of the pack. Stiles sat in the empty seat next to him and began humming the last song he'd listened to while he waited for the class to begin. The teacher walked in a minute or two late, dabbing angrily at a coffee stain on their shirt. Stiles smiled vindictively since they were perhaps his second worst teacher after the disaster Harris was.

Rollcall started up, and when the teacher reached his own name, they called it several times before glancing around the room and muttering something rude about him being gone for the second time in a row under their breath before moving on. Scott turned to look at Stiles' seat and Stiles watched curiously as Scott continued to stare at it as his brows knit together. Eventually he refocused on the class and put it out of his mind.

Stiles stuck by Scott until lunch, when he got bored and instead followed Isaac to his remaining classes. He learned surprisingly a lot about the blonde during his secret shadowing. As it turned out, Isaac may have gained a whole lot confidence after becoming a werewolf, but during class he was still rather quiet and never raised his hand to answer a question. When he was called on, he would sometimes stumble over his words, turn pink in the cheeks, and hurry on with the rest of his answer to just get it over with. _'Interesting.'_ He thought.

When school let out, Stiles walked home, waited for his dad to come home (spoiler alert: it didn't happen) and then spent the night on his bed while staring up at the glow-in-the-dark stars and moons he had stuck to his ceiling in middle school.

The next day was almost the same as yesterday. Stiles followed Scott around. Scott glanced at his empty seat every so often with scrunched eyebrows. The rest of the pack went on with their business like the little 'argument' the other day had never happened. Only, after lunch Stiles followed Boyd around instead. It was about as eventful as watching a rock slowly erode— _though,_ he did eavesdrop on a conversation between him and Erica and learned that the hulking werewolf had a secret love for Hallmark movies— _especially the Christmas ones—_ and Stiles was _so_ going to tease him about it from the afterlife (if he ever got there).

Later that night, his dad made another visit home to passive-aggressively scold Stiles through his door for missing his third day in a row. All Stiles could do was sigh and wonder how these morons would ever survive Beacon Hills without him if they couldn't even solve the very plain and simple mystery of _'Where the hell is Stiles?'_ Seriously.

On the fourth day since Stiles' been dead—it was too confusing to keep self-correcting in his own mind with the _'but not technically dead-dead, just_ _ **sort of**_ _dead and in the process of dying_ —he decided to do something else besides follow his old friends around and wait for one of them to finally get worried enough to start looking for him. So, Stiles went to go see the only other person he liked and might provide him with some entertainment while he couldn't use the internet or turn on a damn TV. Derek.

From his house to the loft was a much longer walk, but time and distance didn't really hold as much weight when he never got tired or sore anymore. It had been weeks since he'd seen his favorite grumpy Alpha and Stiles was actually pretty excited if he was honest with himself. Who knew, maybe Derek walked around shirtless when no one was around! A man could only hope.

Stiles arrived at the loft at dawn and entered just in time to catch a sleep-rumpled Derek shuffling into his kitchen with his eyes screwed shut. Stiles grinned and quickly seated himself on a stool so he could watch. It might have made Stiles seem like a major creep, but it wasn't just about the undeniable hotness that was and forever would be Derek Hale. Being around Derek just put him at ease, he didn't twitch and fidget so much, the ache in his chest seemed to ease up until it was barely noticeable.

He didn't get to do this before; just sit quietly and watch him without heavy filters of sarcasm and banter. Like this, neither of them were playing parts and they were more honest to each other than they'd ever been.

Derek sat on the stool next to him and dug into his breakfast while Stiles silently turned and leaned against the counter with his chin resting on his hand.

"I bet it's been quiet these past few weeks, huh?" Stiles spoke at Derek, aware that he wouldn't be heard but needing to do it anyways, for himself. "I bet it's been _'blissfully boring,'_ yeah?" Derek stared into the steaming black coffee in his mug, seemingly lost in thought. The sunlight was beaming in through the huge windows on the one end of the loft. It was rich and gold and warm. Stiles turned on his stool to face it, closing his eyes to allow it to heat his skin. He inhaled and felt it pool hot in his lungs. The tranquility of that morning blooming in banners of bright light all throughout the loft. A smile tugged at his lips and for a moment, he could forget everything, forget that he wasn't _really_ feeling it. The light seemed to sweep through him until it was all that he was.

He opened his eyes and only saw the morning breaking through the lethargic sky. It was brilliant and felt big enough for him to lose himself. But . . . he turned his gaze over to the oblivious man having his liquid breakfast next to him. His Alpha. His friend. His . . . no, he wouldn't lose himself to the sunlight because he needed to be _right there,_ right next to them, to him. His hand moved almost with a will of its own, hovering only an inch above Derek's forearm and carefully moving up without touching him. He followed a path all the way up to his shoulder, but pulled back before he went any further. Stiles sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry." It was so soft, so quiet compared to all the yelling he'd been doing lately, yet he could have sworn he hadn't imagined the slight tilt to Derek's head and stillness as if listening for something. Taking a chance, Stiles leaned in so close that his lips brushed Derek's ear when he whispered. _"Derek. . ."_ There was the smallest jolt and Derek looked around him in confusion. Stiles' breath caught and he was about to do it again when the quiet air was pierced by the loud trill of a phone.

Stiles was still in a daze, so when Derek picked up his phone, said two words, and was leaving his loft a moment later, Stiles didn't come back 'online' fast enough to follow him and the camaro was already pulling away by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs. Stiles cursed and promised the empty air that he'd sure as hell would be back. However, he had no idea when Derek would be back, so he didn't want to linger around the loft like a damn ghost.

Each step further from the loft was slow and reluctant.

It took hours to reach town since he kept stopping and wandering off. Without something to do, something to focus on, Stiles found it hard to keep himself from drifting. It wasn't his ADHD, he knew that much. It was more like being bodiless made it harder to keep his edges from unraveling. Eventually he decided to go home, since there was enough baggage there to weigh him down and keep him grounded for a while.

Stiles was in for two surprises when he finally reached his house about midday. First, his dad's cruiser was once again in the driveway and Stiles wondered if it was about his absences again and worried if his dad would get in trouble soon for not getting his teenager to school. Second—and the more confusing surprise—Scott was climbing off of his bike and walking up his driveway. Stiles hurried to catch up with him.

Scott knocked on his door and Stiles felt strange seeing someone who had always thought of his house as his second home knocking first, but Stiles supposed that it was only to be expected with their current relationship—or lack thereof. When his dad answered the door, still in the midst of taking off his belt to lock away in his safe, the sheriff looked positively puzzled.

"Scott? What are you doing here? I thought you were with Stiles." Stiles noticed the slight twitch between Scotts eyebrows at that, which meant Scott had probably gone _there_ looking for Stiles. For what? Stiles had no idea.

"Uh, I just dropped by to pick something up. I left one of my favorite sweatshirts here and I kind of need it tonight, think I could just run up to his room quick to grab it?" Stiles had to give his friend silent props, he'd definitely improved in the lying department. John nodded and Stiles continued to follow Scott through his own house.

They entered his bedroom and Scott immediately closed the door behind him. When he turned back around, the concerned expression had returned. Stiles sat cross-legged at the end of his bed and watched curiously as Scott moved around his room—clearly not looking for a sweatshirt. He started with the things on Stiles' desk, but Stiles didn't think he'd find much there. He was the son of a cop, for crying out loud! He would never leave something truly important just laying out! Scott seemed to think so as well after a moment of useless rifling and he began going through drawers.

It was so strange, being right there as someone else searched your room. Though, that was _hardly_ the strangest thing that had happened in the past 24 hours _._ If Scott's current snooping meant that someone was finally looking into Stiles Stilinski's mysterious disappearance, then he was glad it was Scott doing it, because Scott was probably one of the only people who knew about the secret compartments and hiding places Stiles had around his room. Scott pulled out the false bottoms of his lowest drawers and leafed through the interesting, but ultimately useless supernatural information he had written in notebooks and printed from various websites for reference.

However, once he searched all of his info-stashes, Scott could conclude that Stiles hadn't been researching anything new on his own. Stiles had been in the mindset of 'investigator' and hadn't thought at all about the fact that this was _his room_ Scott was searching and that there might be something in there he didn't want his friend to see. He'd forgotten all about that up until the moment Scott reached into his air vent and pulled out something that turned Stiles' blood cold.

It was a journal— _his journal_.

After Allison died—and everything that happened with the Nogitsune, though nobody but the pack new about that—Stiles had been in such a bad shape that his dad had actually brought him to see a therapist. Most of what his shrink said had been useless in the face of the immensity of his trauma, but there was one suggestion Stiles took away from the three brief sessions he actually attended. Stiles had been very tight-lipped during his sessions, for rather understandable reasons, so his shrink had instead suggested he write in a journal since he didn't feel comfortable enough telling someone else what was going on. Stiles had no idea if it was actual professional advice, or just a feeble last stitch effort from the guy. But he did it. He bought a plain little leather-bound journal and wrote.

But now that journal was in Scott's hands and his friend was looking at it, puzzled as he slowly unbound it and sat next to Stiles on the bed. Stiles prayed for an interruption, something— _anything—_ to keep Scott from reading it. Scott was still recovering himself and he definitely did _not_ need to read about what had happened to Stiles while under the thumb of the Nogitsune, he didn't need to read about all of his grief and self-loathing, the sleepless nights, the panic attacks, the time he collapsed in his room due to unintentional dehydration. He didn't want Scott to read about the ever-growing distance and resentment from his father. He didn't want _anyone_ to know about the uncertain feelings he had started to notice he had for Derek.

And most of all, he didn't want Scott to read about _himself_. He had written about Scott the most out of everyone and everything. He went to his journal after each fight, or glare, or in the middle of the night when he was thinking about things and his head was too full for even a few minutes of sleep.

But . . . he couldn't stop him. He couldn't do anything, so he moved closer until they were side by side, pulled his legs up and loosely wrapped his arms around his knees, and then lastly Stiles laid his head on Scott's shoulder and looked on with him as he opened the journal and began to read.

Stiles couldn't talk to Scott, but Scott was reading his words and it was his only way of communicating with him in that moment. It was painful like nothing else, but he couldn't stop, couldn't look away and pretend it wasn't happening.

Scott stopped and started several times to just breathe, process what he was reading, and compose himself before continuing. He gripped the sides of the journal so hard Stiles could hear the paper creaking. When they reached the parts about Scott, Stiles was startled by small stuttering inhale and turned to see that his friend's eyes were red and glistening as fat droplets skimmed his cheeks and soaked into the collar of his shirt. His face was pinched and he fought with himself to hold it back and not make a sound.

Stiles could only watch, no longer reading along with the journal entries. When Scott finally seemed to get through it all he closed the journal, he carefully folded it and put it in his coat pocket. Stiles had a sinking feeling that his friend would be reading it again later. Scott quickly searched the last few hiding places before pulling out his phone and calling someone. He'd found Stiles' shattered phone and his look of worry had doubled.

"Hey, Lydia. . . Yeah I'm in his room right now. Based on what I can smell, he hasn't been here in _days._ Not since- . . . not since Sunday night at least." Scott looked miserable at that last part and Stiles could take a guess as to why. The missed calls. Scott was starting to think something had happened and that Stiles might have called him. Stiles didn't know what he would do in Scott's shoes. Scott briefly told Lydia about the rest of the things he'd found, including the broken phone—though, he didn't mention the journal—and then fell into a long moment of silence. When Scott spoke again after a while of listening to Lydia talk, his voice was far more raw and quiet. "Yeah . . . yeah, I'm alright. I _will_ be. When we find him."

Scott hung up and looked around Stiles' room as if hoping he'd jump out of his closet and tease Scott for being so melodramatic. That didn't happen. The stillness was suffocating.

 _"_ _Where are you, Stiles?"_ Those words caught between his ribs and made it hard to breathe easy. Stiles didn't answer, didn't even try. The barrier between them was unpassable. They were in two different worlds, Stiles' just had a one-way mirror view into Scott's world.


	4. Lost the Battle

He doesn't follow Scott when he leaves the Stilinski house. He also doesn't return to Derek's loft to try whatever it was that he did before. Instead, he just started walking. He didn't know where he was headed, but somehow, he ended up back at an all too familiar animal clinic just outside of town. He didn't know what he was looking for, going there. He'd never fully trusted the ex-emissary and certainly didn't consider the enigmatic druid to be a part of the pack with such reluctance to get involved in their matters.

Perhaps it made sense though, in a way. Every time they landed themselves in some serious trouble, a trip to the vet seemed inevitable. Now that Stiles was facing down the biggest trouble of his life—which is, his own death—it seemed almost natural to seek out Deaton. The good doctor happened to be in his back office going over some paperwork when Stiles found him.

Although Stiles had spent plenty of time in the little 'operating room' connected to the lobby, he'd almost never made it all the way to his office, and the few times he did he'd been too distracted to really take it in. Now, Stiles had the chance to really look around and was not disappointed in what he found. There were large book cases all around the office packed tightly with books. Many were medical and were there for Deaton's day job, but the books along the wall behind Deaton's desk? Those were far more interesting.

It took some time to get it down, but Stiles found that if he really focused on what he was doing, he was able to grab and open the books—even though they never moved an inch in the physical world—though it was rather frustrating that every time his attention wandered or he looked away, the book would disappear. It was a process, but Stiles settled in and began to read. It wasn't like he had any urgent business to attend to anymore, he didn't even sleep!

* * *

Stiles couldn't physically wear down, but he soon found that he could still become drained of energy. Stiles had spent hours sat cross-legged behind a busy Deaton, flipping through worn book after book, reading about herbs and poisons and solstices and rituals and all kinds of creatures. All stuff he may have learned over time if he had the time—or, let's be honest, the will—to accept Deaton's casual offer to help Stiles develop his spark and learn how to wield it for the pack.

He'd been curious before, but after all of the stuff with the Nogitsune and Scott, it had taken a backseat to staring at his bedroom walls for hours on end while dissociating, sleeping at inappropriate times during the day because he surely wouldn't at night, and half-heartedly scraping together a meal out of the few things left in his kitchen because getting groceries meant leaving the house. Though, with nothing else to feasibly distract him from the heart-wrenching experience of watching those around him without being able to tell them what had happened to him, a few musty old texts on energies and magical ointments kept him going for hours.

The sun had already set and Deaton seemed to be wrapping up his work for the day and preparing to go home. Stiles figured he'd stay behind and continue to read—that is, if he was lucky enough to find a source of light after Deaton locked up—as he'd found a passage in an old notebook detailing astral projection and several supernatural experiments. It mentioned something about the difference between humans with slight supernatural aptitude and actual supernatural creatures and how the process of astral projection for the two were done completely differently.

It might be a stretch, but if there was a chance that astral projection and 'out of body experiences' were even slightly similar to his own situation, he would spend every last day that he had left searching for a solution.

Unfortunately, Deaton didn't leave a single light on and Stiles reluctantly followed him out, unsure whether he could be trapped by a locked door or not. Even if he was coming back first thing in the morning to continue researching, he didn't exactly dig the idea of being stuck in a small dark room for hours on end while he waited for first light.

With nothing left to do and feeling far clearer headed than he had before visiting the good doctor, Stiles started walking towards Derek's. It was roughly ten at night by the time he arrived, so he was mildly surprised to see several cars parked in front of the loft instead of just the camaro. From what he could see in the darkness, they all belonged to pack members as well. Stiles let out a sigh.

"God, it's been ages since I've been to one of their little 'pack meetings.'" Stiles said as he shuffled towards the entrance. "Some things never really change." He mumbled, thinking about the last time he'd physically climbed those steps and how all he could think at the time was how he knew he wouldn't be welcomed but he worried the pack would do something horrendously stupid if he didn't go. In the end, they'd done something stupid anyways.

"What do you mean 'gone?'" The harsh tone made Stiles pause a moment from where he stood at the loft entrance, taking in the scene he'd just walked into. The pack standing or sitting around the 'living room' area, all looking tense, uncomfortable, and . . . worried? Derek stood tall, thick arms crossed over his broad chest, body completely still, and angsty werewolf glare turned up to an eleven as he stared Scott down, who looked incredibly pained. Scott's gaze dropped to the concrete floor and his uneven jaw clenched. Lydia, who seemed to be holding on to an anger of her own as she glanced at Scott beside her, stepped forward and took the brunt of Derek's glare as she spoke.

"Stiles hasn't been in school for the past week and nobody's been able to get into contact with him. Scott went over to his place earlier but he hasn't been home in days. We think something might be wrong." She stated matter-of-factly and didn't outwardly react when Derek went from confused/annoyed to furious.

"A week?! Stiles has been missing for an entire week and nobody thought to tell me?" He exclaimed with a low powerful growl carrying his words that caused a few of his beta's to visibly shrink in on themselves.

Scott, having steeled himself once more while Lydia spoke, piped up as well.

"We weren't sure at first! I mean, we haven't exactly talked a lot recently and it wasn't weird for him to miss a few days every now and then. He- . . . he called all of us a few times on Sunday night, but we were busy and I just thought he was calling about the little fight we had last week, but now . . . I don't know." Scott's voice was dripping with guilt and he refused to meet anyone's gaze. Then Scott's brow scrunched as he thought about something that seemed to have bothered him. "Actually, I don't think the sheriff even realizes Stiles hasn't been home."

Derek's growl was fierce and emphasized by his crimson eyes. "Idiot! You always answer the call of a pack member. No matter what you fight about, at the end of the day, we have to be there for each other, how do you not get that?" Derek's incredulously voiced words were yet another shock to Stiles' system, and he didn't seem to be the only one.

"Pack?" Scott sounded small and confused as he finally made eye-contact with Derek, his usual olive complexion suddenly running pale. Derek's eyes narrowed dangerously at that and he quickly surveyed the surprised and confused faces of the rest of the pack with growing apprehension.

"But he's human." Erica piped in, not sounding malicious or cruel in her statement, just puzzled. Derek's jaw clenched and for a moment, he closed his eyes and took in a heavy breath through his nose before he spoke to the pack at large.

"Pack doesn't only consist of werewolves. He might not react as instinctually as you guys do to it, but the same basic instincts are there, the same needs—especially since he's a damn spark! He might not need to scent us, but time together and physical contact will still settle him in a way nothing else can. He might not feel the physical bonds of the pack, but they bind him to us just as tightly. There were humans in my old pack and my mother always taught us that the humans were just as important as the wolves and needed special care because they can't find comfort in scent like we can, they can't feel us from a distance like we can, and that means it's harder for them to connect with us and bond with us, but it is no less important and necessary for them." Derek seemed to get angrier and frustrated as he spoke, but it didn't seem entirely directed at the pack—who were looking to be in different states of despondency and fear as they absorbed Derek's meaning.

In a softer voice, Derek said, "And I realize I haven't been upholding my role as Alpha and ensuring that everyone is alright and taken care of. For that, I'm sorry." Derek's gaze sharpened and once again found Scott. "Even if that's the case, Stiles is your friend and ignoring his calls like that is dangerous. Like it or not, he's been mixed up in this world just as much, and for just as long as you have." He glanced at the rest of the pack. "For longer than any of the rest of you have. He's been a part of it for years now and that makes him just as much of a target as any of you."

"And that's exactly why I didn't want Stiles involved anymore! He's not a wolf like us and he could get hurt!" Scott exclaimed, trying to justify his reasoning for pushing Stiles away in the first place. Stiles, for his part, felt physically pained by Scott's thick-skull. And, apparently, so was Derek.

"Quiet, Scott! Don't you see? He's already a part of it! And he doesn't have our abilities, so we needed to keep him close. I'm not saying throw him in front of you in a fight, but leaving him alone and unprotected not only makes him open to being attacked or taken by an enemy, but also vulnerable to non-physical threats! We've seen it before! There are things in this world that creep into your mind, feed on your weaknesses and turn you against yourself and your loved ones. If Stiles didn't think he was part of the pack, if he was cut off and pushed aside, I honestly don't want to imagine what could have slipped passed us and I hate to wonder what that would mean for Stiles!" Derek's words were a sharp lash across the chest, Scott looked devastated and his hand unconsciously slipped into his coat pocket where he still had Stiles' journal.

Stiles finally unfroze from his spot in the doorway and stepped closer to Derek, and wished he could sooth the enraged Alpha somehow, wished he could tell Derek that he was right there and he was just fine. But all he could do now was stand witness to the troubling scene. He'd been spiteful before, bitter for how long it might take anyone to realize he was dead—dying—but now that he was there and he had to watch the others grow ever closer to the truth, he wished he could erase himself for he never wanted to see such fear in Scotts eyes, or uncertainty in the unshakable Lydia, or vulnerability in the fearless Erica. He never wanted to see that look on Derek's face either, a look of disappointment and almost like he didn't know his own pack anymore.

In that moment, Stiles didn't feel like the pack member Derek claimed him to be, he felt like a wedge, slowly being driven into the freshly mended cracks between everybody. He felt like, despite his incredulity at Derek's confession to his importance to the pack, his death would be yet another blow and whether they were close or not, it would be hard to take yet another death so soon. Stiles was finally seeing the potential magnitude of his demise on the pack and he'd be lying if he said it didn't terrify him. His gut churned and a low ringing filled his head.

"We didn't know. . ." Scott's voice sounded so weak, yet Derek's reaction was immediate.

"'Didn't know?!'" Derek's green eyes bloomed into a violent red yet again and his teeth sharpened into dangerous points as he lunged forward, finally seeming to explode and reach his end.

"NO!" Stiles shouted and moved on instinct, he reached out and grabbed Derek's shoulder and the room fell into silence as the growl cut off and the Alpha stilled. Stiles was breathing heard, heart going a thousand miles a minute as panic flushed his system. It took a quiet beat to realize something had happened, that he'd done something! Derek's head slowly turned, his features melting back into his human form. Derek's brow scrunched as he looked in the general direction Stiles stood in, even though he knew he wasn't really being seen. Perhaps heard? Felt?

Stiles still had a hand on Derek's shoulder and his heart was still racing when all of a sudden, the ringing became deafening and pain burst in his chest so suddenly it felt like he'd been shot. Stiles sucked in a harsh ragged breath and pressed his free hand to his chest while the other dug into the muscle of Derek's shoulder. The pain ebbed only for a second before it crashed back over him like a wave and he cried out. Vaguely, Stiles noticed flickering lights, but it could have been the black spots dancing in his vision. Stiles tried to suck in a desperate burning breath as the onslaught of agony continued, but it never quite reached his lungs.

Another wave and he heard something made of glass shatter. Another and wood groaned in the distance. The wolves looked around wildly. Stiles stilled and his breathing stopped and the very seconds seemed suspended as he arched back, vision filling with light and after moments of utter stillness, the very plane around him seemed to give way and Stiles felt like he was being ripped from the seams of reality and pulled through endless darkness until the world opened up around him and he was falling. Tumbling. Rolling. Hurting.

Stiles looked around him in a panic as he sucked in so much air it felt like his lungs would burst. The pain was more residual, like an echo rather than the real thing, and Stiles fought to slowly reorient himself. It became clear rather quickly that he was no longer in the loft. Looking around, he was somewhere dark and dank. The only light came from a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Stiles took in the scene illuminated by the bulb and his stomach dropped like a stone.

A familiar white bed had its thick white duvet thrown carelessly to the side and Stiles could only catch a glimpse of his body from behind the dark silhouette of Meredith. Pushing up onto uneasy legs and shuffling closer, Stiles realized something had definitely happened. The blanket and sheets had been pushed aside and his white button-down shirt—which didn't belong to him—had been ripped open to expose his chest, there Stiles saw the glisten of residual gel and the faint red marks that matched perfectly with the shining metal faces of the crash paddles that lay at his side. Stiles also noticed that the area around his bed had gained a few familiar additions such as a heart monitor, an IV drip, a crash cart with a medical-grade defibrillator, and a ventilator that wasn't currently in use.

"Mind explaining what the hell is going on here?" Stiles' voice was low and deadly, which is allowed considering what he just went through! Meredith glanced at him before looking back down at his body, lines of stress appearing for the first time in her seemingly-flawless face. She used a handkerchief to clean the transference gel off of his chest and ribs before grabbing the blanket and once again covering him as if he were just sleeping.

"I set this all up because my magic can't sustain you forever and your body has been growing weak lately. However, I never expected to have to put it to use so soon." Meredith then looked Stiles in the eye, expression serious. "Your heart stopped and I had to resuscitate you. I said you'd have a month, I never said it'd be a smooth one." And with that, Meredith turned and walked back upstairs, heedless of the glower following her the entire way.

Stiles turned back once the door at the top of the stairs closed and looked down at his body. Sinking down onto the edge, Stiles laid a hand over the sternum of his body, hating the impenetrable barrier keeping him from slipping right back in like he'd seen in the movies. He stared at his own lax face for a long time as his thoughts swirled back and forth between the conversation he'd eavesdropped on at the loft, whatever the hell he'd done right before being transported to Meredith's basement, and the fact that he'd just actually died for a moment there and it made his month-long deadline feel far less concrete than it had before.

That night, Stiles did what he never thought he'd do and he spent the night in the same house as that monster—voluntarily—needing to be close to his physical form if only to make sure his own heart didn't stop again.

* * *

Back at the loft, the pack was looking around them, waiting for an attack from whatever had caused such a violent display of power. The air smelt of ozone and the lights still flickered every few seconds in some sort of aftermath. The glass coffee table had shattered, littering the floor in fine, glittering shards, and the large oak bookcase closest to the windows appeared warped and splintered in several spots.

The betas were all still so focused on the strange events, that only Derek seemed to notice Lydia, sat on the ground, dark tear tracks glistening down her fair cheeks, and her bottom lip clamped so tightly between her teeth he worried for a moment that she would bite right through. Derek stepped forward and knelt down, capturing her watery gaze as fear settled thick in his gut.

"Lydia, are you feeling like you're about to scream?" Derek's words brought the attention of the entire pack to the distraught banshee. Slowly, hesitantly, Lydia released her bottom lip and it trembled as she spoke, just barely above a whisper.

"Not yet, but he's in danger, Derek! We have to find Stiles!" The words resounded through the room with finality, a blood-chilling affirmation that their worst fears were coming true and that their residential human hadn't just skipped town. Scott's usually tan face was deathly pale as his hand clenched around the journal still stashed in his coat. He closed his eyes and silently begged Stiles to be okay, to come back to them and soon.

Derek rose, expression steely and unreadable. The pack looked to him, desperate for directions, for something to do!

"Let's go bring him back." The words of their Alpha strengthened them, but there was still that underlying unease and dread that this was a battle they'd already lost and they just didn't know it yet.


End file.
